


there’s a love passing through us (without us noticing)

by lyryk (s_k)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Bondage, Dom!Merlin, Felching, M/M, Overstimulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-28
Updated: 2012-03-28
Packaged: 2017-11-02 15:21:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/370457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s_k/pseuds/lyryk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Sometimes, he imagines he sees a flicker of something in Merlin’s eyes, when they’re like this: something softer than the words Merlin’s been using on him, at him, for him.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	there’s a love passing through us (without us noticing)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the lovely [](http://bohemiabythesea.livejournal.com/profile)[**bohemiabythesea**](http://bohemiabythesea.livejournal.com/) and generously beta’d by her. Title from [this poem that she sent me](http://saseen.wordpress.com/2011/01/05/low-sky-by-mahmoud-darwish/), because she is awesome.

Sometimes, he imagines he sees a flicker of something in Merlin’s eyes, when they’re like this: something softer than the words Merlin’s been using on him, at him, for him.

He’s still on his knees on the floor of his chambers and the door’s still securely locked: it’s still just them, just this space that Arthur’s come to crave so much that the thought of not finding it again is like a physical blow to his gut. His hands are clasped behind his back, not restrained anymore but still carrying the almost-bruises of reddened grooves from the ropes that had secured them until a minute ago.

His legs are still bound, ropes twining around them from thigh to ankle, wrapped securely, controlling him so that he doesn’t have to control himself. There’s a wetness between them, trickling from his fucked-open arse, dampening the ropes.

And then Merlin’s tongue is there, licking up the wetness, trailing up his thigh and between his cheeks and gliding up into his still-open hole, sliding deep, and Arthur lets out a muffled sound—not a sob, definitely not a sob—into the cloth that’s still bound inside and around his mouth, because this is too much. He can take more fucking, he can take Merlin’s favourite large wooden plug again, or the demanding thickness of his cock, but this slow, wet caress over his sore, overstimulated flesh is unbearable in its gentleness.

Merlin makes a shushing sound, rubbing a soothing hand down the outside of Arthur’s thigh, his tongue as relentless as his cock had been earlier, licking between Arthur’s abused cheeks in long, slow swipes, taking his time. Arthur falls forward on his hands, unable to hold himself up anymore, and still Merlin doesn’t stop. Merlin knows Arthur, knows he’s not broken yet, not yet strewn about in pieces that can’t be gathered together again. Knows when to stop before it gets too much, because Arthur will never tell him when he reaches his threshold. Knows just how to reach around Arthur’s body and take his cock in hand, stroking in time with the thrusts of his tongue into Arthur’s body until Arthur’s pushing back against him, desperate with need even though he’s already come once, because that’s what Merlin does to him: takes him apart piece by piece until he’s found places Arthur hadn’t even known existed, places too dark and anxious and coiled-tight for anyone else to see, places that Merlin discovers with his patience and his endless enthusiasm for Arthur. Arthur clenches his eyes shut and rides it out, the exquisite agony of Merlin’s careful tongue licking into his aching, thoroughly used-up hole, the almost-hug in which Merlin’s got him wrapped, his hands working continuously at Arthur’s groin, one cupping and squeezing his balls, the other gliding along his shaft, thumb swirling around its head, dipping and rubbing into the wet slit at the top. Images flit wildly through Arthur’s mind like horses out of control: Merlin punishing him for being too careless with his own life; Merlin bringing a riding crop down against his upturned arse, painting it with red stripes; Merlin binding him tightly and fucking down into him; Merlin, Merlin, always Merlin. Arthur’s eyes are clenched shut as he comes into Merlin’s hand, his body quivering with his release. Merlin’s arms catch him around the waist as he begins to collapse, and lower him gently to the floor.

Spent, exhausted, he presses back against Merlin’s warmth. Careful hands undo the knot of his gag and pull the sodden cloth from his mouth. ‘That the best you can do?’ Arthur says with a weary grin.

Merlin nips gently at his earlobe, laughs low and sweet. ‘Is that a challenge, Sire?’

Arthur lets out a hoarse laugh, lets Merlin wrap himself around him like a warm, heavy blanket, hands never ceasing in their slow petting, fingers smoothing the tangles out of Arthur’s hair, palms running down Arthur’s arms and thighs, massaging his sore muscles.

Later, when he’s freshly bathed and wearing his softest nightclothes and buried beneath the bedclothes with Merlin’s hand on his hip and Merlin’s breath warm on the nape of his neck, Arthur listens to him sleep, the sound of his breathing combining with the sounds of the night: a faraway owl hooting somewhere, a lone wind making the open windows bang. Merlin mutters something, half-asleep, and the window quietly latches itself shut. Arthur smiles into his pillow. Sleep tugs at him, pulling his eyelids shut. He dreams he’s living in a house that’s old and familiar and not quite functional sometimes, where the floorboards creak and the stairs are rickety and the glass on the crooked windows is faded with time. It’s still better than anything he’s ever had before. It’s still a house he calls home.


End file.
